Held Together
by Elleblr
Summary: A collection of short pieces covering the friendmanced relationship of rogue f!Hawke and Anders from the end of Act2 onwards, they form a coherent whole but are not necessarily in any order.
1. Together

She holds him as he shakes. _stop – stop – doing this. _Rattling breaths coming hard, incoherent, as violent waves flow through them. Pressed close together. Needing. _I don't want this. MUST. _Shuddering, desperate for an end. Any end. Wrapped in strong arms; Held still; Guided. "Shhhhhh love". And it breaks. One, one soft word and it falls. They fall. The pain to be free; the cost; the lives lost to grasp at what is always just beyond her fingertips, always on his horizon. Quietly now they lay. Exhausted both.

He was a strong man she realises now. He taught her more than she could have guessed: the urge to protect, to halt, to endure, to enjoy, all came from him. She wished she'd realised sooner, before. She'd ran once: Needed freedom she couldn't have with them, always hunted, always moving. Alone she was selfish, stealing to survive. When she came home defiant and hurt he'd held her. Held her as she raged, as she screamed, as she hated him, hated them all. He didn't speak, but they stopped moving. Whatever it cost him to stay still he did it for her.

_It's too much._ It begins again. Silently at first, then juddering. _Please leave_. She needs to hold him, to anchor him. _Never leave_. Aware she mustn't crush him with the strength of her love. _I need you_. Knowing he needs his freedom, needs his secrets. _I'm hurting you_. Violently now, curled tight, struggling for more contact, wrestling to break loose. Breathing strained and painful. Stilted thoughts tumbling as he settles into a steady rhythm.

In that first year, despite his strength, despite his power she could see his pain and fear. Saw him reaching for her; saw him hide his want, his need for comfort. He worked constantly, feverishly, but then would vanish for days_. I'll always hurt you, why won't you leave._ She realised early on that she mustn't force it. He was far too broken for that. Instead she made herself available when he needed her, but tried to live her life. Always he was in her thoughts. Even as she sought comfort elsewhere, pretending at a relationship full of anger, despising herself, despising him. She'd wanted to provoke him into action. It was stupid and pathetic and she'd hurt someone who didn't deserve it.  
><em><br>Please stop me_. Gently now, his breathing slowed. She loosened her hold; let him lay on her, in her, with her. _I hate me_. She looked down at him but his face was buried in her chest. It took all her restraint not to kiss the top of his head. She knew she just needed to be there, nothing more. Just holding him as he cried.


	2. Burning

- breathe - Silence falls as her senses fail to understand and her over-stimulated body struggles to shut down all sensation.

- breathe – blink – look -

Her eyes strain as images swim out of focus; the swirl of the jacket; the thumping; the glint on the crown.

- breathe – blink – look -

Emotion caresses the edge of her consciousness with warm guilt lapping around her heart, pressing its heavy weight on her chest; _he did it_.

She wills her eyes to work – blink - To focus – blink - To find.

Debris falls slowly from the sky. It starts with a single piece of ash dancing gracefully, twisting and ambling in the warm air that has enveloped them. It's joined by a partner, heavier and clumsily tumbling. They collide and spiral to the ground.

- blink - The heat wave has made the square shimmer. The banners smoulder suggestively and she can see them straining and whipping against their ties, desperate to be free before the hot ash consumes them. The years of graffiti look different now, they belong to a time when the town was her home – breathe - she knows she cannot stay. All that remains is him.

- blink - She turns her head to the left. Her body guiding her, her mind struggling to protect her. The walls are bathed in a gentle red glow and she is reminded of the Red Lantern District and of bodies pressed together in languid embraces – blink - what she can see doesn't match her thoughts. Her mind slows the flow of information so she can only catch a glimpse of what lays before her.

- blink – Bodies – blink – Embraces – blink - Clutching and writhing on the ground. Her cheeks burn with shame as she takes in the view, as ever so surely she begins to make sense of what is happening. And yet – blink - _where is he?_ To the right again, taking her time and searching methodically, forcing herself to look at the faces and to bare witness to their fear.

The sound of someone heavily armoured crashing to the ground behind her is the first noise she lets herself hear and suddenly she is overwhelmed. Her senses retract again rushing to shelter what is left, she's desperate to know but needs time. Her body trying to hold her still, to let her come gently into her new life. Her cheeks are still burning as she lifts an armoured hand to wipe away the hot ash that has settled there. She looks to the left now, searching, needing, face to horrified face. And now she can feel the tears pouring from her – her guilt trying to swallow her shameful relief as – breathe – there he is – breathe – _he's alive_ – breathe – everything will be fine.


	3. Tussle

She steps in from the bright sunshine into the cool hall; _It's too quiet for midday_. Checking carefully for any sounds of movement she begins to untie the reeking leather, peeling the layer of foul dead skin from her body; the cool air teasing her flesh into goose bumps.  
>She leaves the bulk of the armour on the floor and steps out of the boots, flexing and cracking her toes as she pads across the cold stone floor. She pulls the damp tunic out of her leather pants and suddenly tips her head, <em>is that movement?<em> Above the crackling of the fire she can hear nothing else.  
>Glad of an empty house for the moment she basks in the luxury of isolation. Her mind clear as she wanders across the hall taking in the pile of unopened letters and the equipment scattered across the benches. Exhaustion envelops her as she mounts the stairs, her legs are protesting with each lift. Hand over hand she pulls herself up the staircase, pausing for a moment at the top. Head cocked, listening again for that noise. <em>Nothing.<em> The temptation to lie on the rug and sleep is only tempered by the thought of the bed beyond the door. She inhales and rubs her eyes roughly with the heel of her palms. _First things._ She unlaces the pants and rolls the hot leather down her legs. If anything the smell is worse now as a weeks worth of warm vapours evaporate. Her tunic sticks across her clammy shoulders, her buttocks, restricting her movement enough to irritate. Grabbing at the fabric at the back of her neck she lifts the linen over her head before flinging it at a corner. Noticing the open window she's suddenly self conscious and holds an arm across her chest as she enters their room.

_Just__ five minutes._ Without thought she falls face first onto the bed; both arms outstretched, and sighs. _She'd got them this far. _And with that one word the peace passes. _Them?_ Ghosts rush in, clamouring at her thoughts, disapproving, judging. Her dad, so careful and calm came to berate her for her recklessness; her brother and sister for not protecting them, for breaking her promise; her mother for not being strong enough, fast enough, for not being Bethany, for not being Carver, for not being Malcolm. The weight on her chest swells, she can't breathe. A silent protracted sob forces all the air out of her body.  
>After a week of movement, of doing, she was back to this: catatonic and unable to rest; pressing her face further in the bed, <em>just cry<em>, wanting to purge all this excess, feeling the pressure of the bed but unable to feel her body.  
>It was too long; she'd had to take the lead again. Aveline had been with them, <em>why can't she make decisions for once?<em> Crushingly she knew that it was her ability to mask her pain that meant none of them realised. It had been going on for so long now that she wouldn't even know how to talk about it. Strangely Sebastian seemed to have noticed a glimpse of it once, perhaps that's why she tolerated him? She needed people that could see her as something other than 'The Champion'. Fenris might hate her now, in fact he probably hated her then, but at least when they were arguing she was someone.  
>She couldn't let them down; they were her only family now and she needed to protect them all. And if that meant they didn't see her weakness, then that was fine; she'd do that for them.<br>She'd never seen her Dad upset. Cross, yes, but always so quiet, so strong, and he'd kept them all safe. Running away had been the worst thing she'd done to him, and still he'd been there, waiting. Not judging, just wanting to understand why.  
>The door clicks open, but she remains where she is. The bed moves as he sits beside her. <em>Please hold me<em>. He sighs gently and the bed shifts again as he leans over to kiss her shoulder blade.  
>"Come here" he breathes, but still she can't move. He's the only one who sees her like this, the only one who knows. He moves again, rolling her onto her side, her exposed body creased from the sheets. Her skin tightens in the sudden cold air and he wriggles over, shirtless, pulling her into his arms, cradling her, crushing her against his body, gently rocking her back to herself.<p>

"GO! / Anders / You're just like them! Always watching, Leave Me Alone! / No, I / WHAT? / It's just / It's always 'just', just this once, just that / Love, no / DON'T! Dragging me with you like a child! / I / I'm NOT A CHILD / I'm not / GO!"

He's back amongst the books, frantically patting the desk searching for something. She stands by the fire quietly. "…talk to me."  
>He throws another book, it slams into the statue above the fireplace then thuds onto the floor at her feet, pages splayed and curled, crackling unnaturally. She hasn't taken a breath, hasn't moved.<br>"Go! I'm working!"  
>"Please just talk" This time it's an ink pot, it explodes against the mantle piece in a cloud of blue, showering her dress with flecks of dark glass. "I'm not leaving."<br>"I wish you would," he says quietly, barely audible above the crackle of the fire. He turns back to the desk, but rather than returning to work he braces himself against it, head hung low.  
>"You don't get to do this,"<br>"Get out." His voice is cold and flat.  
>"I'm not someone you can just push away."<br>"Get. Out."  
>"Anders listen to me, I need to know what's wrong."<br>He stands, unable to face her.  
>"I'm going out now. I have work to do."<br>Whether it's frustration or desperation she says the words that she knows that will make this worse. They've had this argument so many times now, but he's the one that is there for her and it rips her apart that he won't let her be there for him.  
>"I love you."<br>"Then you're a fool."  
>She knows the tears are there when they start dropping off her chin. She can see him struggling for breath; she can see it hurts him too. She has to be strong for him; she has to be his support.<p>

With a growl of frustration he lifts the table and tips it roughly to the side, spilling jars and books across the room. Always she has to push. He's been so alone for so long he's forgotten how to speak to anyone in a meaningful way. So used to burying his emotions, he can't find the words to express them – and now she's standing there, trying so hard to care for him despite all this, when she should be out making herself happy. He looks at her bewildered, why would anyone want him now? Snatches of intimacy here and there were all he needed until she happened to him. And now he needs her, even as she stands there, her hair and shoulder stained inky blue, tears streaming down that face - her eyes pleading with him. And he can't do it – no matter what he does next he will hurt her. _Please leave_ -_ make this easier for us both and go_. But even as he thinks it, he knows she won't. And he can't. If he makes her leave he'll lose that final part of self, when she's with him he knows who he is, knows why he has to do it. His heart could burst with love for her but he can also see glimpses of the future, of what has to happen to be truly free. Without her he's pure action and loses that perspective. He needs the balance; he needs to be reminded constantly why he does it. Why it must be him. It's selfish and cruel, but he's so much stronger with her. _Just please let her be strong enough. _

As he calms down, his shoulders relax, and his face softens. She smiles softly, encouragingly. In three brisk steps he's across the room, wiping her tears away with his sleeve, kissing her forehead, her eyelids, gently tracing his hand down the side of her face to lift her chin. She lets him. She breathes a sigh of relief as they kiss gently, tentatively, so much energy already expelled. Lazily she lifts her arms up around his neck, letting them rest there as his kiss sinks deeper. His hands trace firmly down her back, resting on the rise of her buttocks and pulling her hard against him. She leans back to look him in the eye, wanting desperately for him to understand, to know that she'll be there for him no matter what. That he's the only one she needs. He takes that moment to move her against the wall, pressing against her, whispering apologises into her hair, her neck, he bites her shoulder. She lets out an involuntary gasp, her body throbbing deeply, as he looks back to her, smirking.  
>"You stink; let's take you for a wash".<p> 


	4. Unison

A/N: This is more graphic than previous chapters. Proceed at your own peril. ;)

* * *

><p>He plucks a few notes on the lute, coughs, "Messere", waves his hand in an elaborate salute before folding into a deep bow. Lying on her belly, arms folded under her chin she giggles up at him, "You idiot."<br>"Messere! I am hurt!" He pushes his bottom lip and tries to pout, fails, then clutches at his heart, "Cruel maiden to treat a lowly player so."  
>"Stop stalling" she calls out with a grin, bare legs kicking idly in the air. With a deep breath he launches enthusiastically into a song, she, however is distracted by the view. The fire illuminates him from behind, his body hair surrounds him in a fuzzy orange light. Picking notes at random the song builds to a climax and she can feel the laughter rumbling, he looks over to her and it's too much, he's so serious when he sings. She beams up to him as he strums loudly and brings the song to an end, his voice cracking on the high final note. She claps and whistles from the bed as he bows to her, bows to the wall, bows to the window. Her laugher bursts forth as he does a final deep bow to the door and peeks at her from between his legs, winking.<br>"Get over here,"  
>"Why Messere, I wouldn't dream of such a thing!" She raises an eyebrow at him, and he crosses his arms, lute discarded on the floor with a dull twang, his head tipped to the side in mock disgust.<br>She rolls lazily onto her back, her hair spilling over the end of the bed, and her knees folded against each other. She stretches out her arms towards him, and her fingertips brush his hip.  
>"I'm afraid I have no coin, I'll have to think of some other way to pay my player."<br>"Oh?" he purrs, his eyes alert, darting across her body, the gentle softness of her stomach leading to a nest of light brown curls, the lines of her thighs pressed close together, the flexing in her arms as she gently tickles his hip.  
>"I know it's terribly inconvenient, but I just can't reach you from here." He takes a half a step closer. "Hmmmm, no good, still can't quite reach." Another half a step.<br>Already he's starting to swell as she looks up at him and draws her hands up his thighs, reaching over to take hold of him, her hand curling over the top of his cock to cup his balls with her fingers.  
>With a gentle guiding pressure she gives the tip a chaste kiss before licking her lips and pressing him against her tongue and top lip. She holds him still as he looks down at her, and with a wink she extends her tongue and presses it against his shaft, drawing it slowly back up to her lips to wet it again. She pushes herself up slightly to take his tip into her mouth as she gently draws him in and down to her. She closes her eyes, focusing on the feeling, the sensation as he swells and fills, taught with want and suddenly unwieldy from her position.<br>She looks up at him, their eyes meet and she's smiling, kissing him up and down. She rolls back onto her belly, pressing her elbows into the bed so she can meet him. Hungrily she licks her palm and loosely holds his shaft as she presses his cock through her wet lips, bringing her mouth down to her thumb and forefinger to create enough friction and pressure to draw a short gasp from him, satisfied, she begins to move her mouth and hand together, her hand running up and down, his swollen tip pressed through her lips into the embrace of a soft moving tongue. From her belly she can no longer see his face, but she can hear the catches in his breath as they move together, building the speed between them, unable to tell who's leading, she hears the drapes snap taught as he grabs onto them for support. He moans loudly, words struggling to come to him as she increases her speed, increases her grip. Her whole body is aching for him, her hips rocking into the bed in time with his urgent thrusts as she reaches with her other hand and cups his balls before gently squeezing and teasing them until she can grip loosely and pull down, his own rhythm making them tug as his breath catches and he lets out a long moan. And suddenly she knows he's almost there, his tip flares and it's too much, jerkily he gasps and shudders, words now forming mutterings of love, her mouth filled with his seed. She rolls, twisting and stretching onto her back again, grinning, as he beams down at her, and he brushes her hair behind her ears.


	5. Warning

Drowsy, senses muddled in the grey morning light, she feels him wrapped around her, suffocating in his intensity, curling against her, touching her, their legs entwined, she moves her hips and he groans sweetly, holding her harder, tighter, gripping her in place with his legs, his chest, winding around her to find her arms before she wakes enough to realise they were free.  
>Bound now, held to him, she keeps her eyes closed and submits to him, resting her head back against his shoulder she surrenders as he presses, <em>use me<em>, explores, _hurt me_, lovingly, firmly, _make me yours_. Their gentle rhythm, soothing and calming, stirs her as lazily his hand wanders her contours, owning her flesh, _Please be careful_, one handful at a time. The heat draws soft moans, barely more than sighs, from her. She flickers at the edge of sleep, secure and safe, a part of him. The illusion waivers as he finds a focus for his attention and she stifles a gasp, _He's a dangerous man_. Tenderly, so slowly he strokes, still held tight, yielding, unresisting, she sways with his touch, dreamily leaning into him, moving softly by instinct. _And Selfish_. Rolling, tumbling, she buries her cheek into his arm, stretching and bucking slowly against him, reaching for something, his breath dampens her neck, whispering to her, calming her, _Whatever he promised_, a daze of bliss surrounds her, surrounds them, the touch of his lips warming her spine, his breath stifled into her hair, _don't think he'll ever put you,_ her whole existence is flaring at his touch, abandoned willingly to him, to be his in this moment, she arches back against him, feeling him pressed hard into the small of her back, he releases his hold as she chokes back a gasp, pulling her hips further back to escape his relentless touch, _above his own needs_. Her breath is heavy and hard as she curls up against him, pulling his arm down to her side and wrapping herself around it, nestling, kissing his forearm, before sleep reclaims her.


	6. Duel

The giant statue, the flaming sword, a warrior stomping on the Arishoks severed head. _That's not me_, the candles gathered at the base, the extra layer of noise as work on the new chantry continues into the night. She stares up at it, frowning, taking in the idol she has become, _Champion_, the monstrous bulk of the armour and helm in stark contrast to the tight leather she had worn that day. Her stomach aches at the memory of the sword lifting her above his head, the arcing scars still tender after all these years, a twist of pain rips through her as she remembers her shock, her horror as she realised she had wanted it, that she deserved it, that it might finally wipe her mother's mutilated face from her mind.

Aloft and helpless, bursts of lightning convulsed through her as she struggled to focus, to remain present, to survive; not against the external threat but her own desire for all this to end. To sink gratefully into death, wanting to grab hold of the sword with both hands and finish this, to pull it through her, to rip the runes free from her armour and be cleaved in two. To stop feeling.  
>Her vision had cleared as she was slung to the ground, a wet and panting rag, <em>not dead<em>. The blood pooled around her faster than she'd expected, the effort to lift her head up from the seeping mess that was her body took her breath away. She scanned the room, the impassive qunari; her friends cheering encouragement, blind to the truth, the noise ringing like shouts at a dog fight. He, however, had seen it. She was sure. His face betrayed his abject fear; she knew that expression; it was what she saw reflected back in their cloudy eyes.

Crumpled, destroyed, a discarded toy for the qunari, getting to her knees near broke her soul, _again_.  
>Crumpled, destroyed, a discarded toy for a love crazed mage. <em>Not again<em>.  
>Crumpled, destroyed, a discarded toy for the darkspawn. <em>Not Again<em>.  
>Crumpled, destroyed, a discarded toy for an ogre. <em>NOT AGAIN<em>.  
>She refuses to see that expression on his face, <em>NOT HIM<em>, she refuses to leave him lost and alone, _survive_, and, _Maker_, she loves him, and _Maker help_ she discovers the extent of it, and _Maker help me_ it cast everything else into shadow.

Love forces her left hand into her stomach to hold the hot wetness in. It guides her right to her pockets; throwing every phial, every bomb, every spur into the ground between her and the beast. Growling, gasping for breath she pushes herself upright, knowing if she falls the qunari will cut down everyone in this room, they'll destroy him. All because of her pride, her ridiculous pride.

Her hands must have wandered to her stomach again, his arms wrap around her from behind, his hands lay on top of hers, locking fingers.

Her memories of the duel are vague after that, she remembers thinking to keep out of reach, to wait for his back to be exposed, whether she managed that... she only has the stories to rely on. What she does remember is his face; the relief, the joy, the tears as she looked up at him from her bed. Her body weakened; some wounds beyond healing, but alive.

And now this statue, this thing that looks less like her, and more like a Templar.


	7. Run

They need to leave Kirkwall. Tonight. Now. But he's not listening to her. They'd walked back from the coast silently, hand in hand. As they reached Kirkwall she held his hand fiercely, possessively, glowering at anyone that came close to them. Scenarios ran through her head, _how had this happened_? He was the strongest _and most paranoid_ mage she'd ever met, stronger _and more paranoid_ than her Dad, and blood magic had been enough to capture him? Panic and fear set her chest thumping, her heart beating it's way upwards making her throat throb with unspoken terror.

"It's getting worse, at least if we're in Ferelden we might be able to make a difference."  
>He looks up at this, and she can't quite make out his expression. They've taken the argument up to the bedroom, not that there was anyone to overhear them, she needed the security of the close setting. When <em>that<em> thought had hit her, that the house could have been breached, she'd demanded Bodhan and Orana bar the cellar door and lock all the windows. She knew if a mage really wanted in they'd get in, but it comforted her to know that it would make it difficult for the templars.  
>"I am making a difference here, and so are you." She'd think he was trying to placate her if he wasn't so sincere.<br>"I'm making it dangerous,"  
>"It was always dangerous,"<br>"Honestly? They took you because you're 'one of mine'!"  
>"I could have dealt with them" She doesn't quite catch his words at first.<br>"But you were just laying there." _Did he let them catch him?_ But before she can process her thoughts the words that have been lodged in her throat for hours finally break loose, thick with the heavy breath that follows them "I thought you were dead."  
>"They couldn't, I mean, well, Grace might have tried, but they wouldn't hurt me."<br>She looks at him, unable to quite make sense of what he's saying. She knows his work brings him in close contact with mages fleeing the circle, but if he thought that would save him from a crazed blood mage then he was more naïve than she'd thought possible. And _no_ she refused to entertain the only other option that presented itself.  
>"You heard King Alistair, you'd be protected – a Grey Warden - Outside of the Circle - he basically invited you to Denerim right there." She's pacing, still in her full armour, reluctant to remove it, it's the only thing holding her together. She's been threatened in her one weak point. And if they knew he was her weakness, people she's barely met, so do others. <em>We need to leave<em>.

"We need to leave."  
>"No."<br>"This isn't a discussion, pack your bag, be ready in half an hour." The door slams on the twelve year old Hawke, all tears and tantrums at being wrenched from yet another home, yet another group of friends, all because Bethany can't keep control. It doesn't matter that Beth's only seven, it doesn't matter that no one saw, that it happened was enough for them to have to leave. Again. Burning with righteous anger that her life was being destroyed she slipped her hunting knife into her belt, tucked her hair into her collar, and climbed out of the window. She made it to Denerim and spent the next twelve months stealing, hiding, working for whoever would give money to a child that didn't involve being touched; she'd realised early on the sort of people that wanted to touch her, but they'd not been prepared for the knife in which ever soft squishy part was nearest to her, so eventually they left her to her own devices, preferring easier prey. When she missed them she'd spend whole days in the Chantry crying; the sisters left her alone, the show of emotions either embarrassing them or simply deciding that she had nothing to donate and wasn't worth their time.  
>She caught wind of their names in the market one day and she was struck cold with fear. <em>He'll be so <em>_angry_. But she needed to see them, needed to know they were alright, it didn't mean she was going back, she'd never go back, so she followed the couple who had spoken their names. Quietly, carefully, moving through the crowds and shadows unnoticed; they climbed the stairs to the alienage and she felt exposed, there was no cover across the bridge and the children here were hostile. But she could see her Dad in the distance, and before she knew what she was doing she ran. She ran straight into him before he had time to see who it was, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. She heard the dull 'uff' as she knocked the breath out of him, moments later the gasp, and then he lifted her up and crushed her against his chest.  
>"Why didn't you come for me?" The anger, the frustration exploded out of her, a years worth of hurt finally found direction as she beat her fists against his chest as he held her close, pressing her against him until she fell to sobbing. "I just want a home."<p>

They moved to Lothering that Spring, and she stayed there for seven years before joining the Kings Army. That was the longest she'd stayed anywhere, until Kirkwall. The least tolerant town in the whole of the Free Marches was where she and her family had settled, where her sister and mother were buried, where she'd met him, where she'd fallen in love, and where she'll happily flee if it means he's safe. Now she understands why they moved so much. The urgent need to protect drew everything into sharp focus, in her mind she already had a short list of bare essentials. _Denerim, lets see if King Alistair would actually help_. She could turn her hand to just about anything – perhaps being known as the Champion of Kirkwall would have a practical use for once? She's looking at him, "Please, I promise I'll never let anything like that happen to you again but I can't keep that promise here, please Anders, it's too dangerous, please, lets leave."

He looks up at her, she's terrified, she's unravelling unlike anything he's ever seen, pure frayed energy, agitated, hurting, and the focus of it is him, and it twists inside him, grasping his heart, freezing it in place. It's begun, he's already breaking her heart, and it's only going to get worse. He shouldn't, he oughtn't, but he can't see her like this. Even as the words form he knows this isn't going to help, not in the long run, but here, tonight, she'll be calm, she'll be happy, "Alright, but next month."  
>Relief floods her face, "Next month? Can we go sooner?"<br>Already the lie feels too big, he's never lied to her before, not directly. There have been things which it would be dangerous for her to know, for her to be involved in, but a bare lie? This isn't right. He shouldn't be doing this. But telling her the truth would be so much worse, he hopes she'd try to stop him, but what if she wants to help? He couldn't do that to her, he couldn't corrupt her too. And looking at her tonight, she might just want to help. A glimmer of hope swells in his chest, but is swiftly crushed beneath the weight of the lies that start pouring out of him, _she'll never trust me again_. "There's a couple of things I need to take care of – infact I need your help with something, but that can wait until the morning." The words come out thickly and he can't meet her eyes, he hopes she hasn't noticed. He looks back up to her and she's stopped bristling, and there, there's a tentative smile on her face. If nothing else, he knows he can do that for her. _With lies_. "Now, what will we do in Denerim?"

"We'll make a home."


	8. Either Or

Time is running out, she can't carry on as she is. Mother and Beth are entertaining in the other room, stalling, waiting for her to return from the kitchen. Her eyes are pulled to the pamphlet on the table, rescued by Carver from the Chanters board.

* * *

><p>Sparkling green light dances above them, the morning sun and the trees joining to bathe them in bright promises. He's snoring gently, his head buried in the nook of her shoulder, curled into her, the salt air and exhaustion teasing at her resolve, the soft weight of his raven feathered coat enveloping them, sheltering them from the breeze that is carried in by the tide.<p>

The dawn light comes in through the thin curtains. He's snoring in her face, his breath stinks of ale and rotting meat. Her full belly shifts and she can hear the other children shrieking and running through the small house. The wind shakes the window panes, and cold air blasts through the gaps. He grunts, rubs a rough hand over his dark stubble and rolls over, taking the sheet with him.

He lowers himself into the stream, taking his position between her legs, and she runs her fingers through his soft hair, washing the past away, cold water gently spilling down his back, running rusty with blood and dirt from another life time. She presses her bare chest against his back, glad for today, glad for everyday they're together.

With no chance of sleep she rekindles the fire, pumps the water, stands on aching legs boiling oats to a thin and greasy porridge, tends to the livestock, the wind whipping her hair into her face as the eldest children walk into the village for their morning classes at the chantry.

She lays with her jacket unbuttoned, hair billowing around her, drifting to sleep under his gaze. He traces gentle fingers across her bare stomach, following the splayed trails of knotted skin which meet just below her navel in a crash of unfeeling pink flesh. Softly he kisses her scar, wishing he could have done more, glad he did enough.

He grunts in her general direction and she hands him his food for the day, knowing she won't see him until it's dark and he's drunk. She turns her attention to the washing, the churning, the cleaning. Later as she sits by the fire, her swollen stomach stretching and rolling, she wonders where this all went wrong.

Wrapped in each others arms, they talk quietly, the embers casting a gentle wash of light across their make-shift camp. They plan for tomorrow, they plan for the next week, and eventually as sleep welcomes them into its folds, they dream of their future, together.

All she ever wanted was a home, all she ever wanted was family. Yet she's always in pain, an ever expanding void in her chest where love should be, but he was never going to love her; the way he'd looked at her family she'd known she would always be inferior. When her eldest boy told her about the explosion in Kirkwall she wept; the cat climbed onto her shoulders and purred gently into her neck.

* * *

><p>It's been six months since her Dad's funeral and she has to decide tonight. Marriage or the Army?<p> 


	9. Disclosure

A/N: A nod to a Highcastle's fantastic 'A Distant Ray of Light' universe, specifically 'You Could Have So Much More' for the Nanders shipping. I love her writing, so I'm sure you will too, check out the link to her work under my Favourite Authors.

* * *

><p>Five?<p>

Higher.

Ten?

Higher.

Twenty?

Higher.

More than twenty?

Easily.

Go on then, how many?

Before I stopped counting?... Fifty-seven.

Well, now I'm just embarrassed.

You shouldn't be.

Not for me.

I'm not embarrassed!

I can tell!

What about you then?

Go on, guess.

Just me.

Ha! Nope and you know it.

Okay then, two.

No.

You know Isabella doesn't count?

She does!

So three?

No.

Four... five?

Nope

Ten?

Higher.

Fifteen?

Lower.

Aha! So where am I?

Fourteen.

Hello kitten.

You pest!

I've been called worse.

I bet you have.

And liked it.

So... the best?

Excluding you?

Obviously.

Okay.

And Isabella doesn't count.

She does, you said!

Nu-uh.

She's not even top 5 anyway so it doesn't matter.

I'm impressed.

I can see you were!

Come on.

Well, there was this acrobat, she could bend in ways I'd never seen, honestly, I'd turn around and her leg would be here!

...no? Is that even possible?

Honestly, it was terrifying, I had to leave after she did... this.

Oh come on, seriously.

I'm deadly serious... and help? Please?... Seeing as you pout so prettily, Nate.

What was she like?

He was a dark broody mess.

He?

Well you wouldn't shy away from someone just because they're like you?

I'd hardly call Isabella like.. well... anyone. You've seen those boobs, where do you even start?

Try walking into a pub with her and a dozen other girls already going at it, I had to resort to drastic measures to get noticed!

Awwww poor you.

It was very strenuous.

So what happened with Nate?

Nothing, he left. So what about you? It's me isn't it? You can just say it's me you know.

I thought present company was excluded?

Spoil sport, if you say the elf I won't be able to take you seriously you know.

Don't call him 'the elf', that's so rude.

I can't help it, I've seen the way he talks to you sometimes.

We're not talking about Fenris, we were talking about you Captain Sparkle-fingers.

Oh we were weren't we. I'm very charming, and so very modest.

And so very pretty. Now... what was that move the acrobat did again, I've got an idea.


	10. Trust

Do you tell the man you love how you found the stash of weapons hidden in the clinic? Is there a polite way to bring it up? Do you bring up the similar weapon stash at the home of a mage you've just helped flee Kirkwall under the nose of the Knight Commander? Or do you let that one slide? Or do you make assumptions? Is this what he's been trying to keep you from? Is this why he's stopped talking? Is this why he's always out working? Or do you just take the sword you've been looking for for the past week, that he knows full well about, that he's neglected to tell you he has, and go?

* * *

><p>At first he didn't say anything because, well, she lived with that sleazy uncle and was scraping enough money together for the expedition, not to mention that she overlooked his... faults. She'd always wait until everyone was talking amongst themselves, he figured it for embarrassment, and her hand would dip into a nearby crate and he'd see her stuff trinkets and scarves and bits of tat into her pockets. She always managed to do it as if her arm was entirely detached from her body; there was no way you could tell from her face what her hand was up to and that was... intriguing. He'd found himself watching her more frequently, the way her arm would simply twist and her wrist roll back as it dipped in, her sleeve for just a moment pulling up and revealing an extra flash of skin, and the fluid motion as it returned back to her pockets as if it were nothing more nefarious than picking up a shell from the beach.<p>

Weapons were different, whenever she came across anything of use she'd make them all stop where they were and swap the equipment about. At first he found her lack of emotional attachment strange, Merrill always welled up with tears whenever she had her staff swapped, even Aveline raised an eyebrow when that templar shield was taken from her and sold to the next merchant. She just ignored their protests, voiced or implied, and he simply handed her his old staff and accepted the new. He'd seen this kind of focus before, and you just had to trust it; when he thought about it he found it very reassuring that there was someone who was so very sure of what they were doing. By the end of the day her belt would be taught, filled with battered old daggers and swords and somehow he always managed to be the one to help carry any extra staves. They looked like a pair of refugee's trying to pawn their wares, which in a way they were. Except these things weren't theirs to sell. He really ought to have said something at the time.

She never quite lost her magpie eye, anything small shiny and portable tended to make its way to her pockets; anything large dull and cumbersome seemed to end up in his arms; all to be sold or distributed amongst their friends. She'd become reckless since the expedition, her anger and grief aimed at anything with a lock, anything with guards. She was taking on more violent jobs, throwing herself against ever more challenging opponents for no reason other than to keep busy she'd confessed to him once. But it was stealing from people's homes that made him the most uncomfortable; she went about it with no compunction, the more locks there were the more it seemed to encourage her. That and she'd been spending more time with the elf; they seemed to spend a lot of time out at night picking fights with whoever they could swing a blade at, then getting raucously drunk – the elf was a bad influence.

He found her sitting in the corner of the pub one night, alone and awfully sombre looking. He'd meant to visit Varric, but now was his chance; he could explain that stealing was wrong, that it wasn't fair that she lived in Hightown now and still stole from anyone and everyone. It wasn't right that people worked hard to buy the things she so thoughtlessly took when she could so easily afford to buy them. She wasn't a bad person, she'd understand and it would stop.  
>He made his way through the patrons and she looked up at him blearily as he approached. She attempted a jovial smile but failed halfway, a shallow sigh escaped from her lips, "I'm not good company tonight, the others are upstairs." He ignored her words and sat down, squeezing in between her and the wall, and suddenly was aware that this was the closest he'd ever been to her. Their arms pressed together awkwardly, looking across at her he noticed that her leather jerkin was unbuttoned, a simple linen blouse underneath it and that... he could see the top of her breasts. Blushing he flicked his eyes back up to her face and he saw the same haunted expression she'd worn the day she returned from the Dark Roads. He really ought to say something, the stealing was getting well out of hand, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything tonight, not whilst she looked like the wrong word might cause her to crumple. Their elbows rubbed together, she leant forward slightly to make room on the narrow seat, he sat back further into the corner; sitting uncomfortably wasn't going to help anyone so he shifted his hips and lifted his arm to the back of the bench; she fell in against his side so naturally that he was a little taken aback, tensing momentarily as she let out a deep sigh, rubbed her head against his feathered shoulder and settled still against him; his thoughts wildly inappropriate as the scent of rose, orange and warm leather assailed him.<p>

"Should I go and get Fenris?"  
>"No... he wouldn't understand."<br>"Are you okay?"  
>"Not really."<br>"Do you want to talk about it?"  
>"Not really."<br>"Is there anything I can do?"  
>"Sit here with me for a bit?"<p>

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and prayed that the elf wouldn't decapitate him for sitting with her like this, so very close and so very warm.

Thankfully it was Isabella who came down to the bar first. As she made her way back towards the stairs he caught her eye, she arched an eyebrow but no-one else came down into the bar that evening. He silently thanked her for being discreet and swore that he'd be kinder the next time she visited the clinic.  
>They sat together silently, knees pressed together, her hands laying loosely in her lap, the back of her fingers resting on his thigh, held together in their quiet corner. Eventually her breathing slowed and she slumped a little ungracefully against him; she'd fallen asleep. Looking down at her, seeing her face calmed, he smiled properly for the first time in weeks. Adjusting his position he pulled her closer, careful to keep her upright and tucked against his shoulder, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Later, when Isabella reappeared at the bar he reluctantly signalled her and extricated himself from their snug corner. He watched as she roused Hawke and guided her upstairs to a waiting bedroom before making his way out of the pub into the cold night air. He'd speak to her about the stealing tomorrow.<p>

Except he'd heard about The Tranquil Solution the next day, and after that, who was he to judge anyone?

As soon as he lifted the lid he knew it was gone. It was the largest one he'd been able to find and its absence was obvious. He threw around for other possibilities, but he knew it must have been her. Somehow she'd been down here when he wasn't and poked around like she always does. _She's stolen from me._ A flash of blue panic hit him and he darted into the back room, thankfully everything was as he left it. He replaced the lid on the crate and sat on it heavily, he knew she was looking for those swords to give back to the qunari in the hope it would stave off further retribution, that it might go some way to show goodwill. She didn't understand that the qunari, like the templars viewed kindness as a weakness to be exploited. They viewed diplomacy as a vulnerability and would poke at it until you were destroyed by doing the right thing. She'd almost died for the sake of honour, and the thought of templars touching her for what he was going to do made his bile rise and burn the back of his throat. If she mentioned the sword he'd say he hadn't known what it was, or that he'd forgotten about it, or that he was looking after the crate for a friend and hadn't looked inside. Anything so she couldn't be implicated.

But now he had work to do, there was one less sword to smuggle into the gallows and he needed to find more if the mages were to stand a chance.


	11. Mistakes

_Smile_; "It isn't you it's me." _Well done, now you've gone and made a grown elf cry; idiot – idiot – idiot - you complete idiot - you stupid bloody idiot. _

"This should never have happened in the first place. Forgive me."

_Don't throw anything, that'll give the game away. Wait until you hear the front door close at least. Then you can throw something. But just one thing. You don't want Mother to come in and ask questions._

Swinging herself out of bed she waited to hear the dull thud of the front door then proceeded to beat the void out of the bed post with her pillow; _stupid – bloody – idiot – the – same - every – bloody – time – bloody – self – centred – stupid – idiot - girl – bloody – think – before – you – do – this – bloody – crap – bloody – ruining – every – bloody – thing_; with a final swing the pillow exploded in a cloud of feathers. It really was a mistake, and it really shouldn't have happened – _he's just so… intense. _Panting slightly she eyed the bed._ This is all Isabella's fault, why did she have to mention shackles?_ She couldn't stand his constant moping and endless ranting about mages and magic, but he could be a lot of fun; he had to be drunk, and it helped if she was drunk too, but he'd made her laugh and with Beth gone it had been hard to laugh. _Well done, now he's run off because you bloody jumped him you moron. Why can't you just stop at a kiss? Is self-restraint really that hard you bloody nug-head?_ Grabbing an earthenware mug she hurled it against the fireplace where it bounced and landed intact on the carpet; _bloody typical. _

Embarrassment finally won the battle of emotions; she couldn't just get herself reassigned, this wasn't the army, she lived here, and that meant that she was going to be seeing Fenris most days. _Isabella will just know. She'll be able to smell it or something. Makers arse biscuits, _this time she went for a trinket box which did her the courtesy of breaking open and spilling its assorted contents across the floor. _Three years, three bloody years of keeping your legs closed and one very angry and very hot elf later. _She kicked the deflated pillow soundly around her room berating herself for every wrong choice she'd made. Every time she'd end up in bed with the person most likely to dart out, usually they'd at least wait until the morning rather than running out in the middle of the night practically in tears. _This is a new low. _Scratch that. Seeing Ser Marlow, who actually liked you for you, having her head ripped off by a Hurlock, not much topped that. _I managed this tonight, I'll go with this is worse._ Letting out a frustrated moan she sank to the floor, and rested her head back against the edge of the bed; _I wish Anders was here, I feel like a better person around him._


	12. Fight

A good marriage was usually the main topic along with: grandchildren, responsibilities, her friends, wearing more pink and carrying less pointy things. Usually they skirted around the real issues but this evening, had been worse, a lot worse. When she saw the letters, saw what her mother had done to them she'd been shocked, the violation was pure and painful, too acute to form anything more meaningful than rage. She stared at her own brisk HAWKE followed by the florid swirling Amell in her mothers writing and her stomach contracted; her breath slowed and deepened as she carefully and deliberately tore the letters into four, eight, sixteen pieces, letting them fall across the desk, fall to the floor; eyes unseeing, focused on the need to destroy, to obliterate.

She stalked to the library, let herself in quietly wanting more than anything in that moment to smack her mother, to shame her. Instead she settled for near growling disapproval in the face of self-righteous do-gooding;

"How dare you"  
>"Pardon?<br>"How Dare you"  
>"Lower your tone"<br>"I am not an Amell."  
>Her mother looked at her, brows crumpled with confusion; "Of course you're an Amell."<br>"I'm a Hawke or have you already forgotten dad?"  
>"You leave your father out of this"<br>"How dare you claim me as Amell property"  
>"Makers sake, keep your voice down, Bodhan will hear you."<br>"I've done this, I got us this far, and now you want to pretend that I'm one of you? I'm not Beth."  
>"You'd have better manners if you were."<br>This? Again? Beth - the perfect mix of her dad's magic and her mothers looks. Beth – the ideal daughter who stayed at home and deferred to her mother on all things. Beth – everything she wasn't, "Excuse me if I want people to think of dad and not Gamlen when I give my name."  
>The slap is sudden, it's sharp shock causes her to blink. "Don't bring your father into this, I'm doing this for your sake you selfish girl."<br>She holds her cheek, resisting the urge to strike back, her arms and legs twitching from the effort, "I see I'm the only Hawke left."  
>"And whose fault is that?"<p>

She'd left, she had to leave the room, afraid of what she'd say, afraid of what she'd do. And she needed to do something, anything, and walking seemed like the safest option, or at least the option that left the remains of her family in one piece. Pulling on her boots she thought to go to the pub, drink a lot, swear a lot, and please let some idiot bandits try it on tonight, _please_. She needed to rid her body of the energy swirling uncontrollably in her gut.

As she left the estate her mind rolled, images tumbling uncalled to the front of her mind, the people she cared for, the people she loved, had a way of dying just out of her reach, of being just beyond helping, and always she was left wondering what she did wrong and how to make sure it didn't happen again. She reached an entrance to Darktown before she realised she'd over-shot the pub by quite some distance, pausing at the top of the stairs she tried to remember where she was heading.


	13. Honesty

Dried and shivering curled by the hearth, heat burning through her thin robe, the scratching of the quill across parchment brings images of her dad racing back, _Freedom's price is never cheap, _the wild gesticulations, the gnarled mutterings about Orlais and the Chantry. His passion, his fervour burn through him, warming him despite the frigid air as she huddles for warmth, observing, unable to reach him now. Only to watch, only to protect. The cold water blends to rivulets as his hair begins to curl under its own weight and traces down his back to collapse onto the floor. Knees pulled in tight, arms wrapped close, wanting to reach out to him, to call him over, to have him rest, to have him go back an hour when they were talking and warm in the bath. _What happened?_

...apprentices Tranquil... increasing price of lyrium… templars reliant on it... harrowing's...most compliant, the most obedient... source of the Imperium's power...banned when the chantry came to force... Templars use BLOOD magic to persecute mages freed from the Chantries shackles.

The words are different but the passion is the same; proud, inspired, terrified, _Maker_ _don't publish this one, _the drafts he left at home leave a heavy weight in her gut as she takes in the fresh assault, the angle of his arguments unnerve her, reminiscent of talk overheard about Tevinter, _I don't think I can protect you from this._ She shuffles out the pieces that will bring too much attention, the pieces that will have him cast as crazy. She knows it's his passion, she knows it's his purpose, but others don't, they don't understand when they see it written down, so she removes the most damaging. The fire blazes with the influx of paper, his drafts halved, as she reorders the remains again. _Does he even notice? _

Parchment torn, fragments kept, stored, books slammed, she sits observing again, always excluded from this, not allowed near it, not allowed near him. For her own safety, and still, painfully, in case she gives something away. The words are nice, but the meaning is there, she recognises the pattern, her father kept his secrets close too, gentle but determined. Better to be quiet and be allowed to stay than push him to argue and to send her away. Under the covers she watches as his shoulders ripple with tension, his jaw flaring in frustration or disgust, which ever has set him into a fury with himself, his inability to communicate his cause. The books are stacked and tied, sheafs of paper tucked into his robes as he finally turns his gaze to her, and his eyes soften, she's about to smile, but the moment's passed. He's out of the door, and she's not sure when he'll be back.


	14. Firsts

"It was so embarrassing!"

"Which is why you should tell me..."

"... Makers sake..."

"Come on, I promise not to laugh."

"... alright... we'd been in Lothering about 3 years."

_I'd been in Denerim for 20 days._

"We'd settled in quietly and there were always a few boys hanging around."

"Of course there were, I wouldn't blame them."

"Shhhh, you wanted to know. Anyway, there were these two that always found reasons to come up to the house, Carver used to try to chase them off even though he was half their size."

_I'd managed to get a corner of a room and carved out a space for myself._

"They invited me to the Harvest festival. We were going anyway, but Mother got very excited about the whole thing and said I had to wear a dress and she plaited my hair. Honestly, I was such a tomboy I don't know how I sat through it all."

_I'd made the mistake of wearing a dress, it was the middle of summer and it was so hot, too hot for leather. I was too obviously a girl. _

"We got there and it was all the usual stuff, chasing around, hog roast, sweet meats. We were only allowed the small ale, but Thom managed to get us some mead instead. I'd never had mead before... shhh, stop laughing, I couldn't always hold my drink... I was pretty drunk pretty quickly."

_It was a quick job; go and pick up a package from the back door of The Pearl. Except I had no idea where The Pearl was, it took enough questions to find out it was a pub of sorts. The looks I got when I asked about it should have been warning enough but I'd never heard of a brothel before, and there are only so many questions you can ask before people realise you're fresh meat; That much I'd gathered on my first day. _

"I thought we should sit down and that behind the carts would be best... yes, because no-one would see... laugh all you want... so we're kissing and things carry on and Thom's very nice about it all from what I can remember."

_I got there late, the contact wasn't where they'd said they'd be so I went inside. I needed the money from the job and I wasn't about to let it go. And then there's this man who's asking me if I'm lost and who I'm looking for, and he was so kind that when he offered me a drink I'd just accepted it. It was horrible, probably whisky, but you tough this stuff out. Bluff it. Pretend like you know what you're doing, and then worry about it afterwards. So when he said the contact was down the corridor I followed him. _

"But then Carver's there trying to hit him, he's swinging at him like he's this champion walloper or something, and Maker it's the funniest thing, honestly, Carver's literally half his size, he's like a mabari pup just going at him. Thom just didn't have a clue what to do, and I'm there trying to pull my dress down as Beth comes round the corner, takes one look at us and runs screaming for Mother."

_I ran screaming from the room, my little knife covered with blood. What I wouldn't have done for Carver then, or Dad, or just someone. Someone who cared. _

"What happened then?"

"Oh, well, Thom scarpered. When Mother saw how drunk I was she took me home and put me to bed."

"... you're thinking about Carver and Beth aren't you?"

"Yes"

"Come here."


	15. Dragon

Fenris and Sebastian were filling flasks with dragon's blood. _Get a hold on yourself_. Suppressing the urge to laugh she pressed her shoulders against the teeth, buried her face into its muzzle and stretched her arms out to where the gland ought to be. _This feels too much like a game to be real_. Keeping the jaw open with his staff Anders called out directions for her wandering hands until her fingers found the fire gland. Wrapping her fist around it, she reached into her jerkin for her hunting knife. He guided her movements as she closed her eyes in concentration, the adrenalin and the after effects of the healing leaving her light headed, until she came away with a lump of something hard and bloodied in her hand.

She raised her firsts above her head, triumphant, "I killed a High-Dragon!" Today she felt like a Champion, today she felt like she'd achieved something tangible, like she could arm wrestle the Hero of Ferelden - 'The Archdemon Slayer' and win.

Fenris looked up with a frown, "We, Hawke." Not even that familiar grumble and the sight of the scarf he refused to return were going to put a damper on this.  
>"Hawke The Dragon Slayer!"<br>"Really it should be Anders the Dragon Slayer."  
>"Love, if it wasn't for me you'd have been eaten by those little ones hours ago."<p>

And hours it had been. The smoke had been the first sign that something was wrong. Dark clouds hung over the mines, a trail of smouldering crates led them down toward the quarry itself and at the end of the path they halted, the archer scouted ahead and waved them in just in time for the dragon to return.

_Maker's__ nut-sack, where to start?_

In the time it took to rear its head at them she'd given a short burst of hand signals and they'd scrambled to position, she and Sebastian sprinting across the quarry floor to reach the far side.  
>Arrows and magic filled the air as they were joined by hundreds of smaller and, <em>maker-take-them<em>, faster dragons. They were too far from the other pair. _I can make this work._ Across the quarry floor a flurry of hand signals were exchanged and the rhythm of the fight altered. She and Fenris cut a swathe towards each other, trying to draw archer and mage to an easier to defend position. Or at least that was the plan right up until she saw the dragonling's race past Anders defence. As she twisted and sliced through the beasts in her path, as she looked back at the archer doing his best to pepper the approaching tide, she knew what she would do, and she knew what the trade-off would be. _Save the healer, without the healer the unit's vulnerable. _She planted her feet solidly on the ground and dropped a small phial, a cloud of acrid smoke erupted and she ran; shouldering through, vaulting, eyes locked on where she needed to be, mapping her movements two steps ahead, ignoring the desperate scream that rang out behind her. The shock on Fenris's face gave way to a snarl as she streaked past him to hack at the wave of dragons swarming around Anders; _he's the only one left able to reach the dragon_. The elf made to push towards the fallen archer but she called him back, if they had any hope of this working they needed to stand their ground. The Dragon was predictable enough, but the small ones, they were the ones doing the damage.

Glass bottles piled at their feet, the air bitter with the scent of elf-root.

The constant thrumming as Anders switched between attacking the dragon and healing them made her head buzz.

The sun began to set and the dragon finally looked like it was beginning to wane. As its head bowed low to the ground, she sprinted forward. The startled cries from both men were drowned out by the screech from the dragon. _Grab the horn, stab the head, grab the horn, stab the head. _As her daggers sank into its face, it reared up. _Grab the horn, stab the head, grab the horn, stab the head. Maker this was easier on the ground. _Swinging herself up she curled an arm around the horn only to find she couldn't pull the daggers out whilst its head whipped violently through the air. _Grab the horn, stab the head, grab the horn, stab the head. Maker save me. _She hooked her knee around the horn, freeing both hands to wrench one of the daggers free, as the head swung back up into the air she twisted round and drove it into the skull, the momentum of the Dragon driving the blade in to the hilt. _Get off this blighted thing, now. _


	16. Protection

Limbs aching, Hawke shielded her eyes from the evening glare as the sun burst over the barracks. The old moves had returned within the first month, her stomach still burnt, but she'd take that, she'd earnt it. At least the pain kept her focused.

"The Champion doesn't stop, Hawke!" Aveline was right, she had a reputation to protect, _she had him to protect_. She could rely on the Guard Captain to push her, and right now that's what she wanted, _needed_.

It would be so easy to spend weeks, months even, curled around Anders. To bury herself in their bed and hide from the city and its incessant demands. But the house was too silent. She was too silent. Once he was satisfied she could move about the house unaided he'd returned to work in the clinic. She'd tried that first day. She got as far at the small corridor before the over ripe stench of the lilies hit her. She'd vomited right there on the landing. Then came the tears, her body conspiring to expel as much as it could from her. She didn't try again.

"The Champion can fuck a nug." Bending double, the hilts of the blades pressing into her thighs, she sucked air into her lungs as Aveline's laughter bounced across the training grounds. Her shoulders throbbed from the new rhythms, her usual fluid swings giving way to hard precision; and the assassin just sat in the shadows observing, silent except for muttered curses when her strikes went astray. Closing her eyes, she willed the anger back into her gut. It'd serve her better from there; festing and growing, rather than unloosing at the one person who could teach her what she needed to know.

Survival was no longer enough, the 'almosts' and 'mights' were too risky. She needed certainty. Needed to know when she went into a fight, her opponents; human, mage or some hideous beast Andraste dreamt up, would fall by her hand and would fall quickly. She couldn't afford to be out of action like this again, already the templar presence was increasing, extra metal heads here and there. The way those slit faces turned to follow her, to follow _him_ set her senses alight; her hands twitching for weapons which oughtn't be drawn. This used to be a home of sorts, but now at each turn, at each dark patch of dirt she saw the trail they'd run through the streets. Everything about the town screamed her failure, her laziness, her ineptitude. And now they were closing in, and she had one last chance to protect something, someone. And this time she was going to do it right.


	17. Love

_Damned right you will. Maker be damned you will. If you want to start a fight you fucking finish it._ Seething, near snarling as Sebastian left in a trail of threats, Hawke wished she had any talent with a bow so she could take him out as he beat a hasty retreat.

"Thank you for my life, I'll try not to make such a mess of it this time."  
>How did he always manage this? Sounding like a child, like his life was a trinket, Anders rocked gently on the crate, and her anger lessened. She'd always known he was capable, that he was <em>powerful, <em>but her heart ached whenever she saw him like this. And for him to be like this in public, with the others, with _Fenris_ looking on. It was stupid. He'd just destroyed the chantry, the whole bloody chantry and probably half of Hightown and she was still relieved that the 'potion' hadn't been to kill himself; that despite it all he was alive. For that her stomach rolled with fire, churning frustration, rage and relief into a swelling mass of... something. Something which needed to find a target and fast.  
>"This isn't the time Anders, get up, we've got work to do."<p>

She'd always regret dragging Aveline and Varric into this mess. Still, she was grateful they came, and it was a blessed relief to agree with Merrill on something for once. After all, she needed numbers and she needed people she could trust. It helped if they trusted her too; that way she _had_ to be right. You can't be wrong if you're leading. You just make the decisions and they are the correct ones, because they're yours.

"I should have trusted you..." Anders' words flickered around her, father and lover both, two men she wanted to trust, who wanted to trust her "...I'd rather be on the run with you than safe with anyone else." He looked so damn proud and earnest, everything that gave her faith that he had known what he was doing, that there was a reason beyond the obvious for what he'd done. She stretched her mind back to those stacks of parchment trying to recall if she'd read anything that hinted at this, at his plans, which she'd just been too blind to see, unable to make the connections that he had.  
>"Then we will be fugitives together." After we've slaughtered our way out of here is what she'd meant to add, after we've doubled, tripled, maker knows, the death count. Was this too soon to call it war? It felt like war. The body count suddenly didn't matter in the face of the victory they needed. What was a legion of dead templars, waves of mages sacrificed in the front line, when they had a goal larger than their own survival?<br>"...May the Maker bring us victory or everything else is meaningless." A curt nod was all she could reply, the sound of armoured marching began to echo into the chamber.

Pushed to their limits the mages had used whatever they had to hand, and she was surprised to find that this time she approved. When they were fighting on her side she'd forgive anything that brought them victory. Although slaying the fleshy mess that had been the First Enchanter took more time than she would've liked; she'd still choose a single target over a swarm of templars every time.

They needed to push through to the courtyard to engage the bulk of the templar force, so opening the door cautiously to be greeted by a corridor full of dead templars was, she'd later admit, a welcome surprise. Eyes skimming over the damage, _no obvious signs of death_, she turned to face Sandal; "How did you get here? Where's Bodhan?"  
>"One day the magic will come back. All of it. Everyone will be just like they were. The shadows will part and the skies will open wide. When he rises everyone will see." The creased whisper was new, so was the eery stillness. Hawke blinked and risked a glance at Anders, hoping it might make sense to someone else, that perhaps Anders had seen the boy talk like this before. All she got in return was a slightly startled stare and a slackened jaw. So she latched on to the one thing she could understand; her storage box from the estate. Kicking the lid open she took in the sparse contents; the stolen Grey Warden uniform, her journal, and a satchel full of potions and poisons.<br>"Help then." She motioned to Anders, who was still staring at Sandal apprehensively; something in her bark set in him motion as he took the clinking satchel and strapped it to his back. She stuffed the uniform and book into her own pack. If they made their out of this, and they just might, they'd be carrying a lot more than this. _May as well get used to the extra weight now_.

Making their way through the empty corridors slowly, thoroughly, they reached the deserted inner courtyard, or at least it had been deserted. Fenris entered at the far end with a small troop of templars. A quick glance confirmed he still had that bloody scarf tied around his wrist and she steeled herself for the fight which had been long overdue.  
>"Look at them, backed into a corner they show their true colours, why you're defending them I'll never know. This is an old story that always ends the same way." He never did understand, never cared to try. Things hadn't been the same since their night together, but years of fighting together, of running together, had taught them to anticipate each others moves. The battle field had been the only place they'd found any harmony, Fenris' slow heavy movements supporting her flitting strikes and desperate lunges. Now the dance had been turned in on itself, looking for gaps in his defence to attack rather than guard, "I'm not letting you kill us Fenris."<br>The giant axe carved slow arcs through the air, just the weight of it enough to crush her, never mind the blade edge. She kept out of his reach, only racing in to steal shallow slices from his skin, her blades dripping with blood and poison.  
>"I'd be disappointed if you did." He grunted as his movements slowed, the axe coming to rest on the ground before him. She drew her dagger across his throat, ending him and the threat he posed. As he folded to the ground, she took her knife to the scarf and removed it finally.<p>

Meredith she could cope with. Crazy she could cope with. Statues climbing down the walls... not so much. It was like fighting those rock monsters in the Deep Roads, but at least they'd had veins of energy holding them together. How did you kill something which oughtn't be alive? She'd settle for 'hit it until it dies'.

Instinct. It had gotten her this far, it would carry them through. She had to believe that. The Witch of the Wilds had told her she'd have to leap, but she hadn't said that the choice would be so obvious to barely be a decision. As the sword burning with red lyrium plunged into the ground and Meredith became that... thing, they backed away. Heavy breaths coming from them all. Aveline's cracked shield the most telling of the damage they'd endured.  
>Hawke's face was already swelling from the fight, but whatever that lump was she wanted to be far away from it, and she wanted <em>him<em> far away from the fresh batch of templars pouring into the gallows square. She batted away Anders attempt at healing as she watched the Knight Captain's face, the fear as he realised, and then confirmed, that the molten lump was Meredith. It should have signalled triumph, the way Cullen had backed off should have been a victory. Instead they were trapped on the Gallows with nothing but templars and the sea.

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><p>Thank you to everyone who has been reading this - I've really appreciated all your reviews and messages. And I am currently working on something post-game with them.<p>

But, this is the end of _Held Together_!

Elle x


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